British
by Liebling
Summary: ‘There was no value of peace. No opportunity in the quiet. No fun in the dark.’ ((RW&HG))


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**_Phil:_**_ I love the band - we all do - but there's other things in life, you know, that's more important. _

**_Danny_**_: Not in mine there isn't. _

_~A movie_

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There was always that doubt.  That back in your mind, wake you up when you're supposed to be sleeping, make you stare up at dirty walls when you ought to be taking notes—doubt.

Friends.  There just had to be more out there.  Life must hold something else for the freckled redhead and the British girl with knotty brown hair.  

But their lives were complete, only slightly lacking.

She had books.  _Hogwarts a History_, and she had sugar quills spun with sweetness to suck on when she was bored.  She had old love letters from Viktor--precious to the independent--words that still, she always swore, meant _something_.  Photos of her two best friends all about the dormitory walls, her bedside table covered with olde books.  The young girl had memories, although you know, you can't very well live on memories.  And she was happy, and there always was that _hole_. And it was the slightest teeniest bit of dark.  A slight hole burned deep, so deep.  But it was only slightly.

He had the Chudley Cannons.  And they always lost and it was awfully sad--I mean, another loss?  No way, it was impractical.  But they were awful, and so was he, and he related.  He had his collection of chocolate frog cards--some torn and ripped and tarnished, some with burn marks on them.  Hidden in an old broom case somewhere under his bed.  He had the ebony haired boy who was so very annoying sometimes you could barely laugh about it.  But they were still friends for the redhead was not picky in that sense.  He had a Mummy and Daddy who loved him and tried to keep him safe--and he never appreciated it.  Children were not made to appreciate their parents' good intentions. It breeds a feeling of believing in 'good intentions.'  And perhaps there is not such a thing.  He had his Mother's buttered cookies--delicious things she sent only for Christmas.  Cut into shapes like stars, canes and trees.  _Warm butter and sugar cookies._  He was usually happy and alive, energetic and spoke wildly during class.  But there was always that emptiness.  Only a bit of a hole, only the slightest.  _But it was still there._

**Denial** was attractive, denial kept the people happy and feeling. And she always did say: _"Not, Ron, no, no, not him."_  And her voice was almost cracking it sounded so real--so alive.  And he would continually say: _"Oh please,"_ very sarcastically, _"Hermione's my friend.  Mind your own, business. Right."  _ These lies were nice to relish in when you were young, it was nice having your own secret.  But as you got older, you were not contented.

And so it's a _story_.  Not a very happy one.  Not a very disappointing one.  _Just a story_.  A very simple story that has been told for ages upon ages and you never shall forget it.  For you see, some things are neither happy nor sad something's just **_are _**and you must deal with them as it goes.  As it goes. _Ah, yes.  _

It's a very friendly sort of thing.  Homework in the common rooms (**followed by**: _"I'm not doing anymore!  We've done enough!"_  followed by_: "Sit back down and finish it!"_).  There were meals at the Great Hall.  And he always manages to get pumpkin juice upon her black robes and this is a daily sort of thing, and she thinks if it didn't happen things wouldn't be the same.  Don't ask her why--she knows all the answers--_save_ this one.  Then they walk the empty corridors on their way to charms, or was it history of magic_? _ Sometimes their hands--dirtied by tomato soup and quill stains--touch. But just sometimes and just for a second, for these things are not supposed to last long.

They don't talk much, here and there.  She is often bored with idle chatter and he could go on for all days.  Chudley Cannons, Malfoy's stupidity, here and there, then and now.  First year.  And he always talks of first year and the past is never on his side.  But it's still the good ol' days--and don't ask him why.  _"Remember back when...."_

But they do remember back then.

The two seldom hug for she always did think hugging was silly. Affection in and of itself was silly.  Who needed to be constantly reassured?  Who needed to be constantly held and coddled?  Who needed to be hugged?  Who needed to be touched?  And for goodness' sake they weren't eleven anymore, they were old and they were supposed to be independent.  He thought it was silly, and there they agreed.  But he _liked _silly.

There was trust there and don't ask them why--they shant know the answers.  Trust has needs no justification for trust in and of itself is irrational.  And she never did gossip, only to the bound parchment and that's called a _'diary'_--but she never did call hers that.  He always told Harry everything for there were harsh loyalty lines borne of time and not much else.  And trust is the core, they always say, and the core was strong even if not another thing was.

And they were so different, they always said.  For she was motivated and he was not.  For he had an innocence about him that was just so very _him_.  And she, she was a cynic if you ever saw one.  So suspicious.  So unwilling to risk anything.  He was servile by nature, and she--indignant.  But neither would 'give it up' for peace.

There was no value of peace.  No opportunity in the quiet.  **_No fun in the dark._**

And there was no sudden realization, not for so many more years.  And there were no bursting fireworks--_orange and green_ in colour--.  There was nothing passionate about it.  No snogging in closets, no dancing in the corridors, no feeding each other sugared pastries and buttery croissants.  There was just--_none of that_.  It was for lovers, not for friends and _didn't you always know_?  

There are few regrets, and only when they think too much.  And there are few promises, and only when they are tired.  There is talking in the dark, crying in the 'morn and glitter in the sky.  And there they are.  Amidst it all.  And it isn't chaos--not really, but it isn't peace yet and not like they mind.  For they never were big fans of peace.  It's just a rather awkward yet comfy old bed with tattered silk sheets and a torn British flag overhead.

They're getting older and they always say as you get old, and when you gain a job you lose your soul.  And they always found this silly--save the girl who found it terribly reasonable and made nonsensical sense of it.  

She hasn't changed much and so he's still in love with her--really. I mean, just slightly and just because she reminds him of way back when.  Just because he likes being reminded.  A sugar quill in her puckered mouth, her hair tied up in a large jade bow--a lion upon her robe.  

And it's _so _just like it always was.

Just without the times.

So he looks at her, and sighs: "Are we still children now, Hermione?"

She turns to face him, large leather bound book in hand: "Ron, we're just fifteen."

"Hermione," he comments, "I **_know_**."

And he thinks—maybe there's still time left for them to be children.

_*_


End file.
